Alone
by Vortex
Summary: the reactions of someone who has just seen, in a dream, a child in a powerplant. (this is kinda strage, in actual fact its wierd. I was feling mightily pissed whn i wrote this. in fact i might delete in later)


Alone

By Vortex

I'm hoping this will clear a few things up.

About it.

About what I'm feeling inside.

Everyone must know what I feel. The feeling that nothing is real, that reality isn't real.

You know I just cut myself. Not enough to draw blood, as my skin is as thick as hell, but it was still a cut. I can't believe how easy it was. How I just pulled out the scissors with their blue plastic handle and scraped them across my skin, using a little pressure. It was so easy how my skin gave way, surrendered to a steel metal blade that cut me as if was paper. Like the flimsy bit of nothing I was.

And I was so numb it didn't hurt.

What I do and who I am isn't important. Nothing is important anymore. Now that I've seen that. The sick waking-sleep image of a child, small, naked, inside a gooey pod. Wires ejecting from everywhere, sucking the life out of him, fusing flesh with metal in a horrible surgical procedure that made me physically sick. Made me gag out loud, but the sound was lost in the dreamland I was now inside. The small child was male, I was sure of that, and looking there, at him, I realized this was the pure basics of humanity. That when we are stripped of our friends and family all that is left is a frightened child, alone, naked and very hungry.

The child made everything else irrelevant. Every single act of war or crime that was committed didn't top that.

My world passed in a blur that changed into nothing around me. As if I was lost and alone, in a sea of living that was always there, but that you could never quite reach. That you could never quite be close to from that thought that you are dreaming. That the world that would rather buy a new gun than feed all the dying people ten times over existed.

My world had begun to fall away around me, and the amazing thing was that I didn't care. I never cared.

I suppose after a while the physical feeling of sick was just accepted by my system, as if it was normal.

They say the human mind is capable of adapting to anything if exposed to it for enough time. I suppose that's where the theory of evolution came from.

But, if the child existed, was that the next stage of evolution? Or was that reality?

Have you ever wondered why, when one part of you life is going well, the other decides to plummet? I think it's a form of control. To stop anyone becoming so great that they could take over the world, smash the hold they have on us and free the human race. That's what I think.

Oh god.

I think I'm mad.

Are these the symptoms of a crazy person? Or just someone who's so confused it hurts. So screwed up from countless pain that it feels like she has to scream at the top of her voice until her throat goes dry. Someone who turns to the Internet for council. Someone who constantly feels sick.

You know that song by Papa Roach – last resort.

"Cause I'm loosing my sight,

Loosing my mind,

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine.

Loosing my sight,

Loosing my mind,

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine."

I need that song. I need to listen to it bounce through my head, to hear what I feel in song, to know that at least one other person in the world feels what I do.

I try to be strong.

For them.

For the others who are like me.

Who feel down everyday. I try to be nice to everyone. Even those who I can't stand. Who have bitched about me. Who have told me I was gonna die.

The mark on my arm is fading now.

It's almost gone.

But the mental scar will always be there. At the back of my mind. Being put away in some secret box until I breakdown again, until I stop and cry my eyes out until it feels as if my heart is gonna be ripped out of my chest. And that I have been left there to die, broken, small, naked and alone.

Always alone.

Always small.

And it hurts.

It always hurts.

THE END

Based on concepts by Andy and Larry Wachoski.


End file.
